Forevermore
by christikat
Summary: It hurts to see him hurting.
1. Chapter 1

_Damn idiot!_

Feeling sick! He looked perfectly fine at lunch-time. At least for me he looked fine but I _could_ be biased. Not that it'd be important. His appearance, that is. I'm not _that_ superficial that I'd care what he's wearing today … or yesterday … or –

Well, I _probably_ could tell you the color of the socks he wore three days ago: although, I only know this because it's scientifically relevant. The colors and combination of clothes are like bright neon-signs for his mood and the better I know his mood the better I'm able to predict his reactions to anything I say or do. So, my knowledge is just a part of a scientific experiment.

Returning to the question: Why didn't he tell me that he was feeling sick _and_ that he's going home? I mean, I'm able to give comfort! The more I think about it the more it's annoying me. Other drivers get to know about my annoyance as I'm barely driving within the speed-limit and passing other cars rather aggressively. I'm _not_ concerned about his well-being or curious about him leaving work without telling me. I just want to go home.

As I pull in the parking space in front of the house, directly behind his car, I have to smile. I'm reminiscing about us buying this house four years ago; both of us tired and annoyed after a long work-day and looking at house number 497. Expecting it to be a failure - again. From the outside it seemed to be in a good shape and the real-estate agent immediately praised the house in glowing terms which earned him suspicious glances from us. Surprisingly, the inside was even better than the outside; I really had a hard time concealing my excitement. It's a one-storied house near the hospital where everything would fit in and it wouldn't blow our budget.

Tipping the scales was the bathroom. A large bathroom with an extra-shower and – biggest point – a Jacuzzi tub in it. Lover boy's eyes lit up in sheer excitement and I myself was simmering with it. We were both trying to keep our excitement down as we learned from looking at the other 496 houses that we obviously didn't always like the same things … Anyway, none of us could hide being excited and a very cautious and tentative talk later we both admitted that this was it!

Wow! Four years ago! I don't think either of us have ever been in such a long-lasting relationship before. Sure, we still fight sometimes and the normal bickering is always there but we both plucked up our courage, finally surrendering to the deep attraction that was flaring between us since forever.

Okay, I should get myself a drink before this goofy smile gets stuck on my face _and_ I tell him about my feelings … Uh, no! There's no need to talk, we already know everything! Talking is overrated anyway.

I expect him to lie on the sofa, rolled up in a blanket, staring at the TV, being a miserable and snuffling mess due to having caught a cold. I'm surprised to see that he's not there. The kitchen seems to be unused too. A grin is spreading over my face as I contemplate him taking a bath, remembering quite a few hot encounters in there.

I'm disappointed when I don't find him in the Jacuzzi and am forced to take into consideration that maybe he really _is_ sick. Which would mean that I will have to take care of him and won't get much sleep for the next three days or so. Whenever he catches a real bad cold he gets a high fever for about two or three days; including a lot of tossing and thrashing in bed. He'll radiate an unhealthy heat, dozing throughout the day, not being coherent most of the time and refusing to eat or drink. I don't know what the worst part of it is. Probably getting some drops of fluid instilled into him. A lot of cooing and petting will be necessary and to be honest – it's scary to see him like this.

So I am _not_ surprised to see him lying stretched out on his side in bed, facing away from the door. I _am_ a bit surprised that he still has his work clothes on and isn't nestled down under a dozen blankets. The snuffling noises are there like I expected. Snuffling is an accompanying noise for colds but these snuffles sound … different. Like the other snuffles … the ones you're emitting if you're crying and -

_Uh-oh!_ He's not crying, is he? _Oh damn!_ Crying, he's crying … Why the heck is he crying? Did he already hear me? I could pretend that I'd never been in here and watch TV and maybe even cook. Yes. That's what I'm going to do.

Despite that I can't move my feet; they are glued to the floor and I'm uncomfortably mesmerized by the sight of violent trembles shaking his whole body, making the bed rattle. The sobs are coming from deep down, forcing my gut to coil up in sympathy and fear. Everything in me tightens in pain at seeing him suffer; the sobs are tearing at my heart. My chest aches, the big lump in my throat aches and my heart aches with an irresistible desire to soothe him, help him, love him.

It hurts to see him hurting.

I'm capable of moving again and before I know what's happening I have rounded the bed, sucking in a deep breath when I take a close look at him. His face is puffy and swollen from too much crying; despite having his eyes squeezed shut the tears run down his cheeks in large streams, leaving wet trails, gathering in a large puddle under his chin on the linen. Heavy sobs are shaking him, one hand is curled around a crinkled tissue, many others are scattered around him.

That is when I recognize the photos and photo-albums laying littered around him on the bed, the nightstand, the floor. His other hand is pressing a photo-frame against his chest, making my body tingle anxiously. I don't want to jump to a conclusion but I fear that I'm right anyway.

I sit down on the bed, startling him with it. His eyes snap open, the brown color barely visible and I'm out of breath at seeing the pain in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut again, cradles the photo-frame closer to his heart and without saying a word curls into a tight ball, rolls on his other side, turning his back to me.

I'm irritated. Shouldn't he be glad that I'm here? Irritation is making room for anger. How dare he reject me? I just sit there seething in my own anger while I listen to his voice getting more and more hoarse. I'm somewhat startled when he speaks to me, "L-leave me a-alone! Y-you d-don't like seeing m-me cry."

His voice sounds so unfamiliarly coarse and raspy that I don't get the meaning of his words instantly. All anger rushes out of me, replaced with a mixture of guilt and sadness. I know I'm a bastard and that he still has to put up with a lot of shit from me but I would never have guessed that he doesn't want me to be close when he's grieving. Tears are stinging _my_ eyes as I suddenly think that I don't deserve this man. I'm aching all over with the longing to see him happy, smiling, laughing. I shove some of the photos away carefully and stretch out behind him. Tentatively I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, almost sobbing myself as he flinches away from my touch. He curls himself together even more tightly; his knees are almost touching his chin.

I'm trembling all over too now. I don't know what to do. I've never been good at comforting and he has never been in need of much comfort. I squash the unpleasant thought that maybe I just didn't see his need of receiving comfort. I favor my own neediness much more. At the moment _my_ need is to hold him close, ease his pain somewhat, and give him some kind of comfort. So I put my own need before his, clumsily climb over him, drag and pull forcefully at him until he finally sees no use in struggling against me.

Our hearts beat rapidly and unsteadily when he complies at last, curling around me, causing my body to shake with him. I have a tight lock around his upper body while dropping little kisses on the top of the brown mop of his hair. My own voice sounds strange when I softly ask, "What happened?"

"I … I g-got a call from m-my brother at noon," he starts to say in between choked sobs, his voice sounding muffled because he's talking into my shirt. He seems to be under the impression that he's able to crawl into me. I have to admit that I wouldn't mind him doing it if it were possible. Word for word he squeezes out everything he heard from his brother about his parents car accident, repeating over and over again that they _must_ have died immediately. I almost can't understand him at the end when he's wailing that he had last seen them four months ago, that he wasn't able to say Goodbye. He wants to go on but nothing comes out, so I finish for him, "And it hurts."

He gives an almost imperceptible nod, clutching to me with an almost painful grip, crying even harder. Tears are stinging my eyes again and I can only think that it hurts so unbelievably to see him hurting. My shirt is drenched after a few minutes, gluing it to me. I swallow hard as I still don't know what I should do. What could _I_ do to help him? I can't even tell him that I love him; I'm incapable of doing that. Wouldn't be very appropriate now anyway although I suddenly have to fight hard against the urge to tell him how much I care about him, how much it hurts me to see him like this, how much I fucking _love_ him.

And I never told him that I do; although this caused a major fight between us two years ago. He was fed up with me not once telling him that I love him albeit being in a relationship with him for about two years. He had asked somewhat desperately, "Will you _ever_ tell me that you love me?" And what did I answer? "No."

On hearing that he turned on his heels, grabbed his jacket and raced out of our home. Before the door closed I was able to shout after him that I could show him that. The furious yelled, "That's not enough!" will be burned in my mind forever. He was gone for 34 hours, not answering his phone, nothing. During those 34 hours I came up with at least two hundred possible ways of telling him that I love him without actually having to say the dreaded line.

When he came back we were standing at the door, staring at each other. He more stated than asked, "You won't _ever_ tell me that you love me, will you?" I wanted to say it because I didn't want to lose him over such a bagatelle but the only syllable escaping my mouth was again "No". He averted his eyes, his hands sinking even deeper in his pockets and I feared that was it. That I destroyed the one thing that worked for me because I'm incapable of saying those three words. Instead he made my heart skip as he sighed and softly prompted, "But you could show me that you do?"

I did exactly that. Since he stayed with me I must have been quite convincing. The smile spreading over my face is quickly gone when I realize that he's still crying; crying about losing his parents who have been an important part of his life even though they didn't see each other often lately. I start to rub his back soothingly, fearing that I'd crush him with the grip I have on him.

I can't relate to his feelings because I don't think that I'd feel the same way if my parents died. Could be linked to the fact that I don't like my parents as much as James loved his. They were easily likeable people, even for me. Agreeable, warm-hearted folks, James' Mom a bit over the top with the caring attitude but at least it explained where he got it from. In my minds eye I recapitulate their unannounced visit about three years ago; James getting all flustered and embarrassed as they put one and one together. Instead of accusing him of living together with me they expressed their surprise. Not about him being gay or loving me. No, about him finally acting on his feelings towards me. It gave me mocking potential for _months_.

An hour later he's still crying but with less force. His body isn't shaking anymore, it's reduced to light shivering; there's no energy left in him. My energy level is decreasing too while my pain level is quite the opposite. I don't have the heart to shift him somewhat to reach my pills which are laughing at me from the nightstand. He's exhaling a series of shaky breathes, trying to pull himself back together, I'd guess.

When he lifts his face up, my heart forgets to beat for some seconds. It's the most heartrending sight I've ever seen. His hair is sticking out in disarray, his face is completely swollen and his lower lip still quivers. He picks up a tissue to blow his nose and miraculously my pills are pressed into my hand. I quickly swallow two; I'm embarrassed that even now he puts me first. I grab for another tissue and wipe off his face, earning myself a startled look out of puffy eyes, displaying so much pain and loss.

The hurt in his eyes is cutting deep into me, tearing me up. I can hardly breathe; the want to see him unharmed is literally knocking the breath out of me. I cup his face with my hands and kiss him with as much tenderness as I'm able to gather. It's like holding something small, delicate, and even fragile in my hands. Suddenly the urge to tell him that I love him attacks me and before I'm able to do anything against it I blurt, "This … this might not be the best moment to tell you but … but I love you. I mean, really love you. In fairy-tale style, like loving you forevermore."

He freezes laying half on top of me, making me squirm beneath him until he chuckles and pillows his head on my chest. A few seconds later he lifts his head up again and looks at me. I'd love him even more if it were possible as he says, "Yeah, you already showed me that you love me when you held me the last hour and let me cry. But I wouldn't mind hearing you say it again because I love you too."

I still don't know if I deserve him and of course he's still hurting but me saying this little line seems to be helping him. I no longer mind saying it again and again.

END

5


	2. Chapter 2

**Funeral**

We're back at our hotel room after the funeral. He's unsteady on his feet but didn't cry one single time. Not even during the heartrending eulogy from his brother. Other then the first night he didn't cry at all over the loss of his parents. I don't like seeing him cry but that he's _not_ doing it grates on my nerves. I never know if I do or say the right thing and it's so unbelievably exhausting to walk on eggshells all the time.

I watch him loosen his tie and open the top button of his shirt. He's pale, his skin color almost borders on transparent and his cheekbones are even more pronounced than usual. I made sure that he ate at least a little bit but he has brought the terms deflection and evasion to an unknown mastership.

"House? Would you leave me alone for a while? There's a bar …," he trails off.

"It's too early to drink," I answer.

"_House_," he sighs my name in drained exhaustion. "Please. I … _need_ some time alone. Let's say an hour. _Please_."

_He_ could go to the bar and spend his alone time there but I guess that's not what he wants. He's probably just going to cry and doesn't want me to see him break down again. It's annoying – I _proved_ that I'm capable of acting considerate. I open my mouth but no words escape me. His eyes are begging me to leave him alone. It is of course not possible for eyes to beg but I swear his eyes are different. Oh well, who am I kidding?

I nod and make a great show of looking at my watch. "One hour. Not one second more."

When I turn around and head for the door I hear him giving a sigh of relief. Anger boils up in me and I slam the door shut behind me. I stomp towards the elevator, trying to get a grip on my sudden outburst of anger. The thing is that I feel dejected; although I shouldn't feel like this. Might as well drown my confused feelings with some drinks. That's what he told me to do anyway.

I order a beer and am grateful that the barkeeper retreats quickly behind the counter to polish glasses instead of trying to lure me into a conversation. I sip at my beer and stare at a big clock, waiting for the minutes to pass by. I wonder what he's doing in our room. From out of nowhere the image of him taking an overdose of pills is in my head. I shake my head to clear it but the image is replaced by a new one. This time he's slitting his wrists. Tiredly I rub my hands over my face and force this image out of my head too. Now both scenarios conjoin to one and nothing is able to keep me on the stool anymore.

Breathing laboredly, I walk as fast as I can back to the elevator. I swear it's stopping on _every_ floor between the ground and our room on the fifth floor. The doors seem to be _thinking_ about closing and opening for a few minutes on each floor and I'm sweating profusely. When I reach our floor I'm short of banging my cane at the fucking doors but fortunately for them they eventually decide to open.

I burst through the door, sweeping my eyes through the room like a lunatic. I start when his hoarse voice informs me, "That wasn't an hour."

I lean against the wall for support when I see him curled together in a big armchair. The shaking of his body is visible even from my place. His face is swollen and he's crying silently. I can't help myself but rant, "You idiot!"

His eyes widen in surprise and he hugs his knees more tightly to his chest. Before he hides his face and totally retreats into a fetal position again, I cross the room and rest my hands on his shoulders. "I _do_ love you. Still in a fairytale style," I whisper. "Don't expel me from your grief."

He hiccups but still struggles to keep up some kind of his self-composure. "I can't _breathe_, House. I can't _feel_ anything. It's like I'm swallowed by a black hole into total nothingness." He lays a hand over his mouth which muffles his next words, "I wanna _feel_ again. So badly. I just wanna _feel_."

It hurts so, so much to listen to him talking like this. I tug at him and drag him over to the bed. When we're finally lying I press his head against my chest and hold him tightly. "Do you feel me? I'm real and I'm still here."

The shaking increases and god, I can't remember ever having felt this utterly helpless. I want to laugh in relief when he squeezes out, "Hold me tighter."

I comply, although I fear I might crush him but suddenly he begins to sob which quickly turns into crying. Tad by tad I loosen my grip and allow him to breathe freely again. He's clinging to me, shaking and crying, fully losing the battle against his own emotions.

I don't know how long it takes until the streams of tears subside. I don't care either. I smile when he asks me in a hushed voice, "Still like forevermore?"

"Yes. It'll always be forevermore."

END


	3. Chapter 3

One Year

Exactly one year ago Wilson's parents died. I thought he would take today off but I was wrong. I thought he' might want to visit their grave but I was wrong again. I'm still waiting for him to cry or behave differently but at work he acted as if today is a normal day.

Our relationship changed during the last year. _We_ changed in many ways, mostly subtle ones. He has always been a manipulative bitch but since his parents died he got his way more often than I should have permitted. Still, whenever he looked at me out of his glazed brown eyes I caved. I'm relatively sure that he has a secret button for squeezing out tears but embarrassingly for me his trick always works. Bad thing is that he knows about the power he has as well. Though I do know how to play this game too.

I'm acting skittish around him which annoys me greatly. It's so hard to be considerate and not accidentally trample on his feelings. That he's not showing any kind of uproar is totally unnerving. So unnerving that I'm gnashing my teeth whereas my body becomes tense.

Even at home he doesn't act differently. After dinner I'm so irritated that I ask, "Uh, do you know what day it is?"

"Sure," he replies.

I'm short of exploding but keep myself in check. "_And?_ How … how do you feel?"

His expression is blank but his eyes darken. The mask of normalcy gets its first cracks and his voice sends shivers up and down my spine when he says, "Remember when I told you at their funeral that I can't feel anything? I wish it would be the same now."

I'm speechless and stare at him openly. Suddenly he's more or less sitting in my lap, almost devouring my mouth. I'm a bit dizzy when he pulls away and pant heavily. His eyes are glittering and hoarsely he demands, "Make me forget."

My very first impulse is to comply – immediately. Ten seconds later I hold his wrists together in one hand while my other hand rests on a cheek. Firmly I tell him, "No."

Disbelief is written all over his face and the tear-forming button is pushed. I have to close my eyes for a few seconds because he pleads, "_Please_. Please, I want to forget."

For emphasis he bends down and nibbles along my throat, grinding his growing erection against mine. I suck in a deep breath while he scoots closer. I'm very much tempted to give in. I mean - it wouldn't hurt us. Nonetheless I repeat weakly, "No."

"No? Your body thinks differently." He gropes and dives with his hand under my shirt, pinching my nipples until they are peaked. I have lost my grip around his wrists and both of my hands are cupping his ass. His face is flushed, his hair tousled and he looks so damn gorgeous that it tears at my heart.

I have the element of surprise on my side as I manhandle him into a different position. He's now sitting between my parted legs, his arms are crossed in front of his chest and I'm pressing him tightly against my chest. I can't see his face when I elaborate, "No. It stays no. I don't want to make you forget. I don't want you to forget how important your parents were for you - ever. Do you understand?"

He begins to struggle against my hold but I keep up my embrace. He rants and curses at me but I ignore it. It's not really him who's talking right now anyway. Eventually he slumps back against my chest and mumbles, "But it _hurts_. It still hurts _so_ much. I don't want that. Do you like to see me hurting? I just want to forget for a bit and you'd get something out of it too."

He rubs his ass against my crotch but I'm too distracted by my own fury. I really want to slap some commonsense back into him but instead I keep up the lock around his wrists. Angrily I hiss, "I don't like to see you hurting, you moron. You know that. Sex is not the cure for everything."

"But-"

"No!" I roar, causing him to jump.

He begins to shake in my arms and whispers, "It hurts. It … it _hurts_. It's too much. Either you're having sex with me now or I'm starting to cry. If I start crying I won't stop for a long time – I'm sure we could spend our time in a better way."

Of course I'm not keen on watching him fall apart again but anything else just feels wrong. I shake my head before I nuzzle my face against the hollow of his neck. The shaking increases when I say, "Not tonight. We can't spend our time better right now."

He sobs hoarsely and I cradle him in my arms, allowing him to soak my shirt with his hot tears. I do love him, more than I can express with words. I hope my actions will express my feelings, I hope he understands.

When he gazes at me out of puffy eyes later he croaks, "I love you."

I smile at him while I wipe away some tears. Tenderly I rub our noses together, causing him to titter. In this moment it is the most adorable sound I've ever heard.

END


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